


The Scientist

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, WIP, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I've nearly been in contact so many times, but... I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet."</em>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scientist

John stared vacantly at a fixed spot in front of him, somewhere between the edge of the bench opposite to him and the bright green grass behind. He stood completely still, tried swallowing down the oncoming tears but failed. His eyes shone, shivered. He blinked. A single tear began to form on the corner of his eye. He wiped it away with fingers dextrous with the practice of dissimulation.

The realisation that the hand smudging away the man’s tears was the same with which John had held the mobile phone that last day made Sherlock’s stomach clench. It had held the mobile phone through which they had last spoken. The mobile phone that heard all his lies, all of John’s broken pleas.

People walked past John, oblivious to the lonely man. They rarely ever spared him a second glance, as though they couldn’t see the bags under his lifeless eyes, the tight lines of his jaw, the stiffness of his body. As if John’s sorrow was nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe John came here every day since Sherlock -- Since he left. How could he know? It had been months since he had set eyes on John, after all.

Sherlock’s hand found his phone. He pressed the contact list’s button and stared at the only name he had on it, then back at the owner of said number. But John was still staring at that one spot, eyes lost and dark. Sherlock’s thumb rubbed circles on the call button. He pondered pressing it, finally hearing John’s voice after months of wanting to do nothing but just that.

He analysed the possibilities of calling and telling him he, Sherlock Holmes, was alive. But what did he expect? A ‘ta-da!’, a laugh, and a pat on the back while they went to Angelo’s? Most certainly not. This was John he was thinking about. He’d probably spit out words of spite and hung up. And that would be it. No more John in his life.

However much he wanted to go back to Baker Street, though, however much he had planned this encounter, he couldn’t see himself walking up to John, smiling an apology, standing through whatever reaction John could have. Not only because he would most certainly feel uncomfortable, but also for what it would cause on John: sadness, sorrow, loss of trust, pain, anger. Relief? Maybe. Possibly a little bit of happiness, but not enough to be worth it. Not enough to be worth losing the trust of this man.

Sherlock let the phone drop back to the depths of his pocket.

He schooled his breathing to be calm and tried not to think about the colossal favour he'd owe Mycroft for having found John's new phone number (too many journalists and morbid creeps had called him after Sherlock's fall). Even though the task had been easy for Mycroft, the relation of power was unbalanced: Mycroft had something Sherlock needed and couldn't get elsewhere. Surely his prize to pay would be enormous. A terrorist to catch, vital information to retrieve, investigation and “leg work” Mycroft despised so much to be done and gathered. Anything was fair play when it came to his brother’s quid-pro-quo recollection.

And all for nothing.

Sherlock spun around with the grace of a ballet dancer. It took him great effort to carry himself away from John, back to the horrible apartment he was renting with the small fortune he made back when he was a consulting detective.

The days after he had “killed” himself had gone slowly, money spent in dye and disposable phones. Always at night he longed for John; when he slept, he would dream of the army doctor, his best friend, and the life he had left behind. And bloody hell, did he want to go back to it.

The ironic thing was, now he could go back to that life, back to 221B, back to John, (even if for a moment before rushing off to chase the rest of the net) he couldn’t bring himself to. He couldn’t bring himself to face the person that mattered the most in the world and explain all of his lies. He couldn’t bring himself back to the public scene. He couldn’t face those he’d hurt when he disappeared.  He would have to, eventually. He knew as much. But how to go back to them, back to his past?

He rustled something up for lunch, which he moved around with his fork for about twenty minutes before pushing the still full dish away. He had no appetite, no will to nurture himself even though he knew he had to. It had been two days since he had last eaten, but London... London wouldn’t let him enjoy a much-needed warm meal without reminding him of how domestic bliss, or something terrifyingly similar, had been lost when he had jumped off the roof.

He turned on the small telly he owned to think of something else. The greenish screen showed the last of the midday news. Back on set, there was a man. The bloke sported a beard, and his blue eyes looked extremely familiar, framed under greasy black hair parted in the middle and--oh! Anderson? Sherlock frowned and considered changing channels. Instead, he turned up the volume.

A blond smiling presenter dressed in a smart green suit greeted him, and he politely thanked her and the production for inviting him. (Sherlock repressed the urge to huff. When had Anderson become _polite_?) The woman introduced him as an expert and friend of the greatest detective Britain had ever had: Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock scoffed).

Anderson politely corrected the journalist. “We were more of a... How to put it. Rivals, so to speak. We’d never agree on anything,” (well that was putting it mildly) “And I must admit I was one of the first to... to doubt him on the last case. But (but?) now I’m convinced he was saying the truth all along. You see, my group and I are fond of discussing both his work and how he survived.”

Sherlock stared at the telly. He couldn’t make a sound if he wanted to. Of all the people in his life, was Anderson the only one who believed in him, in a possible return

The interview went on to Anderson sharing some of his craziest theories (seriously? Bungee jumping?) and the presenter trying with all their might not to make fun of the nutcase that was this investigator before her. To Sherlock’s delight, she was failing.

He watched until the very last bit of it unmoving. Well then.

John was as broken as before Sherlock and Anderson believed in him. When had things changed so much, he wondered. When had he become so important in someone’s life he’d change things so radically, so utterly, break them and twist them and glue them back together only to find his very own Frankenstein’s monster murdering on its wake?

Sherlock stood up. He needed air. Turning on a cigarette, he went out of his apartment. The cold wind hit his jeans like daggers, but he didn’t care. He roamed about the streets for an hour before realising where he needed to go.

He stopped in the middle of the road, hailed a cab. “St. Bart’s Hospital, please.” Sherlock got inside quickly, closed the door behind him. He rubbed his hands together, both for warmth and because of the anxiety the destination evoked in him. There was one person he had to see.

 

***

 

She looked as though she had not aged a day, even if two years had gone by. Her hair was kept in a high ponytail, her lips coloured pale cherry, her eyes concentrated on the tissue sample before her. A man moved around the lab in green overalls.

A deep breath after, Sherlock’s hand was pushing the door, his feet walking the lab he had come to know so well. The smell of antiseptic won over the rotting flesh kept in the slabs, inside the drawers. There were toe tags on the first shelf to the left of where she stood. Even now, months after he had last been in this same lab, she hadn’t even changed that.

Her eyes remained fixed on the dish in front of her, preparing it to go under the microscope. Her assistant, however, did notice Sherlock.

“Sir, you cannot be here without permission.”

“Permission? I never needed one of those before.” His lip curved up on one end. “You should educate your minions, Molly.”

Her head snapped around, fast as a whip. Her eyes were wide and it was a moment before she could finally open her mouth. She stared him up and down, rushed to him. Her arms were around his lean form before he knew it, squeezing tight as though the six months of being apart were being compensated in just the one moment. His hands hovered over her back, but it wasn’t until he felt her crying that he finally placed them around her smaller waist. Contrary to whatever he had been expecting, her sobbing merely intensified.

Even more contrary to what Sherlock thought reunion with Molly would be like, she pulled back and slapped him, much to the men in the room’s surprise.

When his eyes came back to her face, her features were hard, tears still falling from her eyes. There were tears in Sherlock’s eyes, too, but these were due to his burning cheek. She wiped away her face, looking angrier than ever. There were metaphorical flames burning in her glare.

“What took you so long?” she demanded. “I waited for you. You could’ve at least called! I thought you’d bloody died!” Her hands rose and Sherlock flinched, expecting a second blow until he realised she was just throwing them up in exasperation. He relaxed minutely. “You said it wouldn’t take long, said you just needed a corpse, and that you’d be back in a tick, and then you take six bloody months to get back here. Do you know how Greg was? And John?” she hissed, her voice a low rumble. “Darn it, Sherlock! You’ve left them so bloody heartbroken, and I knew you were alive and couldn’t tell them...” Her eyes got lost in memories. “I thought you’d died. Really died this time.”

She hugged him again, arms strong and tight around his weak-with-tiredness body.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because it felt like the right thing to say.

She shook her head against Sherlock’s chest. “You were gone too long.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated in case she hadn’t heard.

“Don’t apologise to me.” She pulled away. “I hope you’ve apologised to John?”

Sherlock looked to a side. The trainee pretended to be busy as he heard all of it and paid attention to the scene the two were making. It probably wasn’t every day his boss slapped a man who was supposedly dead. Molly noticed the public they had.

“Mark, my friend and I are going to go have some coffee. Do you want me to bring you anything?” Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up, admiration painting his face at the commanding subtlety that was so unlike the Molly he knew.

“No, that’s okay, Doctor Hooper,” he said, eyes not meeting hers. “Shall I continue with the tissue sample testing?”

“Yes, please. This way,” she commanded, turning around. Sherlock nodded and they began striding down the familiar corridors.

Sherlock looked around himself, through the glass, down. Hadn’t he been so observant, he would’ve thought he was back in time. However, he could feel his feet slide more than they used to, but it all smelled the same. The janitor had changed, then.

Molly spoke up. “So, how did he take it?”

He looked away to the street — the trees were taller now. A fit person could easily climb them and slide into one of the labs. He would have to tell someone about it later —. He refused to think about John, or talk about it just yet. “Where’s the coffee shop?”

“Just around the corner.” He felt her eyes burn his skin with their intent inspection. However, she said nothing more. The walk to the café was spent in silence. The front of the shop was small, cobre bricks against green awning. The glass on the wooden door sparkled as a woman opened it and made the door bell chime. The tables and chairs on the streetwalk were occupied by coffee drinkers and tea lovers, people enjoying pastries, a cigarette, and a talk. One man was reading a newspaper. Sherlock wondered when he would appear in the front page again, how long it would take for the reporters to find him. Certainly not long. He had to talk to John before that, he knew. But to do it, to face the emotional repercussions their meeting would bring...

He didn’t realise he was frowning — or that they had arrived — until he saw his reflection on the clear glass of the door. Schooling his features back to neutral, he swung the entrance open and let Molly in before following her, the bell chiming for them too.

He ordered black coffee. Molly ordered tea with milk. She hadn’t changed that much, then. Sherlock smiled softly, the small recognition making him feel a little more at home even if all the rest was different. He grudgingly pushed down the memories of having bribed Molly with the same hot beverage whenever he was searching for a place to inspect the body part he was examining without John complaining about it and with more equipment. He took off his sweater.

Molly eyed him up and down. “Change of style, I see,” she said, nodding at the Black Sabbath shirt he was wearing.

“Camouflage,” he corrected her.

She hung her jacket from the back of her chair, a playful smile in her eyes. “So you decided to dress like a teenager.”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“So, how has life been?” The waitress came with their hot drinks. They thanked her and Molly went on, “Can I have some sort of insight or must I stay away from it all and pretend you didn’t just come back from the dead?”

Sherlock stirred his coffee, eyes moving up and down this new Molly in front of him, her shyness practically gone. Back when he was officially alive, she could have never spoken to him like this. She would have stammered the words she said, and she would have apologised after speaking. Now — Now she was looking at him, daring him to tell her.

And Sherlock was always up for a challenge.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. I'll post as I write.
> 
> (Also, this is unbetaed. Sorry about that!)


End file.
